Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?
Parseltongue: "ss"
They were losing.
A tall, dark-haired man stood at a window, watching the blood red sunset. Perhaps it is an omen, one that does not bode well for my side, he thought. He shook his head. He didn't believe in Divination, even though it was a prophecy that started this war. Fate could not be predicted - it was what a person did, that determined their future.
At least, that's what had applied to him. By all rights, he should be a murdering kleptomaniac, but here he was, fighting for what was right. A hero, in the eyes of his supporters.
How much longer would it be, he wondered, before his supporters started dying off one by one? When - not if - he was the only one left standing?
It was easier to fight one ingenious man. Yet he was fighting two. Two men who shared the same ideals, plans, and, in this war, side. Two men who had decades more of experience and knowledge. Two men who were powerful and master manipulators.
There was no point in pondering useless, dismal, disheartening facts. He knew that - it was foolish to do so. Besides, he was analyzing the truth, which could not be changed nor influenced.
There was simply no point.
No matter how much he wished there was. War made people long for the simple comforts, the almost-necessities of ordinary life. In another lifetime, perhaps, he could have wished and it would have come true by hard work and ambition. But this lifetime? Wishes were made by the foolish and the dreamers. Realists, like himself, would realize that nothing would ever be the same after this war. The world as they knew it, would change.
It was only a matter of time.
A pale man lying on the ground, flesh burnt by the wrath of love, life taken by the specter of evil.
"Kill the spare." A swish of a wand, a flash of blinding green light, the soft thump of a body hitting the ground.
A handsome male falling in slow motion into a spectral fabric, never to be seen again.
"Neither can live while the other survives."
Bright green eyes snapped open, the intense colour appearing to almost glow in the darkness of the room, inside the house of Number Four, Privet Drive. Harry blinked forcefully as he stared up at the blurry ceiling, dispelling the burning feeling behind his eyes - what was the point in tears, anyway, if the minute drops of water couldn't bring back a life? But he couldn't do anything about the choking feeling rising in his throat, the flames of guilt licking at his heart.
Sleep is overrated, he thought sourly, the missing hours of sleep suddenly catching up to him. It hit him like a ton of bricks, rendering him fatigued and in a terrible mood. It's certainly not the restful, rejuvenating period everyone says you need. It's either nightmares or Voldemort breaking into my head. Honestly, he says I'm not much of a challenge to him, and if I'm not, what's the harm in letting me sleep?
It was mid July, two weeks into summer break, and he had barely slept. He was exhausted, the signs showing in the dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his skin even though he spent most of his time outside doing chores for the Dursleys. The Order, it seemed, couldn't really care less as long as he was appearing fed and watered. So what if he looked tired? Maybe he was still grieving for his godfather, they would reason. And Dumbledore - Harry didn't really want much to do with him at the moment. Maybe, if he had known about the prophecy beforehand, he would have figured out that Voldemort was trying to get to it...and Sirius would still be alive. Maybe Harry would have spent more time learning Occlumency. Perhaps Harry would have gotten extra defence lessons or something during the summer breaks to help him stay alive.
A spike of pain in his scar made him lose his train of thought, something he was oddly grateful for. Absentmindedly rubbing it, the teen thought, Voldemort's mood swings are as crazy as a teenager's. And exactly who is the teenager between the two of us? Rolling over on the bed, he glanced at the fuzzy bright digits that indicated what the time was. 3:45. Great, Voldemort's turning me into an insomniac.
With a quiet sigh that betrayed the weight on his shoulders, he closed his eyes, determined to get some semblance of sleep, lest the Order come calling and stir up a ruckus with the Dursleys. As if they needed any more ammunition to hate him.
The sound of an owl hooting loudly and urgently threw all notions of sleep out the window. Harry cracked his eyes open, shooting a questioning glance at Hedwig.
"What's going on, girl?" He asked softly, snatching his glasses off the nightstand and slipping out of bed. Hedwig's large amber eyes blinked and her head tilted to the window. The Boy-Who-Lived spared a glance outside, and did a double take.
Mr Weasley? What's he doing here?
For a moment (a moment of insanity, but he'll never admit that), he amused himself, imagining all kinds of different scenarios.
"Harry, I'm afraid that Voldemort has gone on vacation, putting the war on hold so you can focus on your N.E.W.T.s. He sent you a postcard; Dumbledore told me to give it to you."
"I don't know how to say this, Harry, but Fudge has been sent a greeting card from Voldemort."
"Harry, Voldemort's been turned into a rainbow unicorn and Professor Snape is his mate - thought you should know."
He stopped his thoughts from going any further after the last one, shuddering at the mental image.
The doorbell, curiously, didn't ring once Mr Weasley had reached the door. Instead, Harry heard the sound of the floor creaking and the soft snick of (what he thought) was the door closing. Suspicion arose, triggering a flurry of movement - snatching his wand from his nightstand and scratching a quick letter on a scrap piece of parchment, all while being as silent as a mouse. He approached Hedwig's cage, anxiety rising with a small dose of fear.
Unlatching the rusting latch, he stroked her feathers and quietly murmured, "Take this to Steelclaw at Gringotts." Catching her inquisitive look, he defended, "It's not that I don't trust Mr Weasley, Hedwig. I'm just cautious, is all."
A slight bob of her head. Her beak clamped down on the folded up parchment in his hand and the snowy owl soared out the window. Harry watched her fly away, green eyes wistful.
The disaster at the Department of Mysteries had opened his eyes, so to speak, and he realized how stupid and foolhardy he was. Lulled into a false sense of invincibility, he was sharply reminded of his mortality as he had faced death once more. Spurred into action, he had reached out to Gringotts, bargaining with the goblins to ensure that they stayed neutral in the upcoming war. It wasn't much, but goblins were fierce warriors.
He was jerked out of his thoughts as Mr Weasley called out softly from downstairs, "Harry?"
Harry moved through the house silently, his wand in his hand. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he caught sight of the silhouette of the Weasley male.
"Mr Weasley, what are you doing here?" Harry asked, watching the redhead carefully.
"Dumbledore said you are in danger, Harry. He sent me to pick you up and you'll spend the rest of the summer at the Burrow," Mr Weasley quickly explained. "Go and pack your things, the Portkey's scheduled to leave in ten minutes."
Numbly, Harry did as he was told. Somewhere in between throwing socks and books into his trunk, he wondered, Dumbledore had said I would be safe here. Why would he pull me out and say I was in danger? It doesn't make sense. But he shook his head and continued packing. There was a small niggling thought of, What if this is a trap? What if he isn't actually Mr Weasley?
Minutes later, he dragged his trunk down the stairs and stopped a few feet away from the adult redhead. "Mr Weasley, may I ask a question?"
A smile. "Of course, Harry."
"What did you ask for when you were being treated for your injuries this past year?" Harry questioned, a hand closing on his wand. Is that something a Death Eater would know? They're all purebloods, I think.
Mr Weasley blinked. "Why, er, stitches. Why do you ask, Harry?"
"Nothing, Mr Weasley. Just wanted to make sure." His hand relaxed. It's him.
"Well, leave your trunk, I'll take it after you leave." At this, he thrust an empty soda can at Harry. "Here, it leaves in fifteen seconds."
The soda can was cold and smooth underneath his fingers. He barely had a moment to realize it was a Sprite can, before he felt a jerk at his navel and his relatives' house disappeared.
And he reappeared in a dark room, seemingly empty but full of movement at the same time. His senses picked up a swishing of cloaks, and then the shadows didn't seem like mere shadows anymore.
This is not the Burrow.
"Welcome, Harry Potter," an eerily familiar voice hissed behind him. Harry whirled around, his wand in his hand. His green eyes squarely met the red, serpentine eyes of Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort laughed, a high, cold sound that chilled Harry to the bone. "So it seems," he murmured, "that a little Boy-Who-Lived lost his way."
"You mean, I was fed a story and then was brought here," Harry snarled. It wasn't enough that Voldemort had taken Sirius away from him, it wasn't enough that Voldemort could get in his head, it wasn't enough that he, Harry, had to kill Voldemort or be killed - no, Voldemort had to go and do this too.
Voldemort's eyes flashed, his dangerous playful manner gone. "Schematics, dear Harry. I do hope no one was expecting you."
"You know very well that no one was expecting me!" Harry hissed, as anger and frustration and a tiny dose of whatishegoingtodotome rose within him.
"What a shame," Voldemort drawled, "that the Wizarding World's savior is so...irrelevant."
Harry remained silent, his features twisted into a furious scowl.
Voldemort went on, "Think about it, Harry. Even Dumbledore's famed Order of the Phoenix could not keep you safe from me. They didn't care. I've also heard that the wizarding public is...quite strongly opinionated about you." A fearsome smile formed on his lips. "'Liar, crazy, attention-seeking…' My, aren't those compliments, wouldn't you agree?"
It's not true. "I think they said them to the wrong person," Harry snapped. "They seem to suit you well." Instantly, he knew he made a mistake.
"It seems you have forgotten your manners," Voldemort snarled, raising his wand. "Crucio!"
Harry saw the spell coming, but it was so close-range that he only moved an inch before he was struck by the curse. Pain and agony flooded his senses, his nerves shrieking for the torture to stop. He bit down hard on his bottom lip to stop himself from screaming, and tasted blood.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Voldemort released the spell. Panting, Harry staggered to his feet and gripped his wand.
"You're lucky I'm merciful," Voldemort hissed. "Next time, I cannot promise such a thing." A flick of his wand, and Harry's wand flew into the Dark Lord's hand. "Nott, Mulciber, take him to a room."
Desperation and fear clawed at his heart, but the two Death Eaters were stronger than him and dragged him into a dark room with a mattress. Nothing that he would be able to use to escape or attack. Nott and Mulciber silently left, locking the door behind them.
In complete and utter darkness and with only silence as his friend, Harry collapsed onto the bed.
"What does the prophecy say?" Voldemort snarled.
Harry slowly lifted his head, his mouth twisted in a ferocious scowl. "Like I'll ever tell you."
"A pity. Your parents would have wanted you to say it, so you wouldn't have to suffer," Voldemort murmured. "No matter. We shall try again tomorrow."
"My parents are dead. You, of all people, wouldn't know what they would have wanted because you killed them," Harry growled. He could hear his blood dripping onto the ground, the steady drip drip of the ruby life-giving liquid. Pain had become a constant in his stay here at Voldemort's base, his thin silver scars a reminder of each day. Seven a day. Most, if not all, heal completely, the rest don't. Too many to count. After all, Voldemort doesn't want the Boy-Who-Lived getting too many battle scars, too much credit.
"Wouldn't you like to join them?" Voldemort softly asked. "Wouldn't you like to see them, get to know them, feel loved by them? All you would have to do is say a few words, Harry."
Harry felt himself wavering. Get to know his parents? Feel loved by them? Be able to savour a hug, a kiss, a shoulder slap? Besides, Harry thought, no one's coming to get me. No one cares about me - Voldemort proved that. It would be so easy just to tell him, and then the pain will go away. And I'll be with my parents.
He tamped down on those traitorous thoughts. No. I didn't survive this long to just give up. My parents will just have to wait a little longer.
"And let you break apart other families?" Harry snapped. "Stop trying, Voldemort, you're not going to break me."
A flash of anger in those scarlet eyes. "Very well. For your sake, hope that you'll give in tomorrow. Bellatrix seems quite eager to have her turn."
And then he was gone, the ropes holding his hostage in place falling limply to the ground. But Harry didn't notice, for he went rigid with anger and fear. Sirius' killer, coming to torture him.
A godfather falling through a veil… No.
The world seemed to find it fun to throw these kind of things to him. Harry hissed as he shifted, his wounds stretching and letting more precious red liquid drip spill. If it weren't for a Death Eater coming in each day to clean his clothes, he was pretty sure this room would smell rancid.
The pain from various torture methods was almost nonexistent, now. If Voldemort knew that Harry's pain tolerance became greater each day, he would stop the sessions. But a greater pain tolerance meant nothing if Harry couldn't eat, couldn't bandage his wounds. He would die very soon, he knew. Prophecy be damned, starvation and blood loss would kill him first.
It seemed like only a few short agonizing hours had passed when the door opened again. Harry was still in the wooden torture chair, because he didn't have enough strength to limp over to the mattress on the other side of the room. Something Voldemort made sure of, I'm sure.
"Look who's here - oh, little Potter!" A familiar, chilling voice cackled.
Harry's heart froze. Bellatrix Lestrange.
"My Lord tells me that I'm free to have my fun," Bellatrix smirked. "Unless you're willing to talk, Harry…"
"Go to hell," Harry snarled. Immediately, he felt a searing pain in his chest, in his eyes, in his ears, and he was vaguely aware of someone screaming, and him convulsing, for the pain was too great.
A year must have passed before it all stopped, and he realized it was him who was screaming.
"Your screams are music to my ears, baby Harry," Bellatrix maniacally grinned. "But I don't think I've heard enough."
Before Harry could do or say anything, the agony coursed through his veins, ripping apart each and every nerve end. His screams went on longer this time, echoing off the walls of the room, taunting him with their unearthly sounds. But then he couldn't scream anymore, because his voice failed him, and then he was digging his fingers into the chair, feeling the wood cracking apart beneath his fingertips, feeling his glasses shatter and embed themselves into his skin, feeling his body hitting the floor, makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop, tasting blood in his mouth, smelling smoke and ashes.
It only ceased when all he could see was black.
Then he was falling.
"Wake up, Harry. I didn't even drag you to Zetai."
Harry groaned as he heard a voice hissing at his ear. "Go away."
"I don't think so."
The Boy-Who-Lived slowly sat up, blinking at the darkness of the forest - hang on, a forest? Memories started rushing back to him, of Voldemort, of Bellatrix, of horrific pain, of smoke and ashes…
Instinctively, he catalogued his injuries, wincing at the aching pain in his body, a whisper of the torture he had undergone.
He felt coils against his leg and looked down to see a Quetzalcoatl watching him. Its aqua-blue, light jade green and dusky orange scales, along with purple-red wings, made a stunning sight.
"Who are you? And how do you know my name?" Harry asked, belatedly realizing he was speaking in Parseltongue.
"I am called Aetas, a male, and I'm your familiar."
"Familiar?"
"Much like how your Dumbledore has Fawkes," Aetas offered as a way of explanation.
"Er, okay. But how did I get here?" Harry then realized the use of 'your' and asked, "And what do you mean by 'your Dumbledore'?"
"You got here by yourself. I just helped you along so you wouldn't die. As for where we are...we're in a different dimension than the one you were born in. Hence, 'your Dumbledore'."
Harry blinked in shock. A different dimension? How the hell did he manage to get himself here? And how would he get back to his own? He found himself panicking, millions of what ifs streaming through his head, each one tugging him further into a dark abyss of thoughts. Eventually, he forced out a question, hanging onto it like a lifeline.
"How - how do I get back?"
At this, Aetas' eyes became somber. "I have no idea."
Harry's head spun, trying to take in this new information. Was he stuck here forever? Could he never see his friends again? Would they even know he was gone? Would he cease to exist in their world? Hold up, Harry, he chided himself. One thing at a time. He breathed in and out slowly, attempting to calm himself down. For one thing, he had been taken by Voldemort, so it was possible they knew he was missing.
But they didn't come for you, did they? A small, traitorous voice hissed. Harry pushed it away with force, locking it up in a small portion of his head.
"How do you know about my Dumbledore?"
"When you got yourself here, I saw your memories, your past, like a true familiar would have experienced. Obviously, I'm not supposed to be your familiar in your dimension, but I am here."
Harry nodded. That made sense. If he admitted it to himself, anything would make sense at this point. "So I'm assuming that things are different here?"
"Understatement of the century," Aetas snorted. "But I don't even know any of it. You see, when you came into existence here, I was only alive for a few months. Not enough time to learn history. Time passes at the same speed here than in your dimension, by the way."
"You're pretty large already," Harry noted, eyeing the snake. He chose to focus on the smaller things; maybe that will help ease him into the 'alternate dimension' idea.
"Humans," Aetas said derisively, "among the slowest of them all, yet still thinking they are faster than all."
Harry wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so he searched for another question. "Where is this forest?"
"I'm supposed to know? I haven't even flown yet, let alone left my home," Aetas said. Then, in an undertone, "Humans."
"Sorry. Have you exceeded your capacity for human interaction, or something?" Harry innocently asked.
"Shut up."
Harry laughed for the first time in daysmonthsweeksyears and grinned at the annoyed Quetzalcoatl. "I hate to tell you this, but you're kind of stuck with a human."
"And a sarcastic one at that," Aetas grumbled.
"That's like the pot calling the kettle black," Harry retorted.
Aetas tilted his head, tongue flickering out. "I taste blood. Yours. It wasn't so strong before." The winged snake narrowed his eyes. "What in the world happened to you?"
Harry winced. "It's nothing, really, just a few cuts here and there." He didn't remember much of his torture sessions, anyway, because they all seemed to meld together. He couldn't tell which day was which, and it didn't matter - all that mattered was that each day contained pain and questioning.
"And I thought humans at least had a sense of preservation," Aetas hissed. "You're going to bleed out."
Harry shot a wry look at his familiar. "I hadn't noticed." But underneath the sarcasm, he felt a tinge of fear. How was he going to get out of this forest and somehow obtain treatment? He didn't know anything about this dimension - Aetas implied that things were very different, and he couldn't go out and say he was Harry Potter, because he didn't know what response that would invoke.
"Aetas, do you happen to know if I existed in this dimension?" Harry asked carefully.
The snake tilted his head thoughtfully. "No, I do not." Then, as if sensing Harry's distress, he added, "I could find out, from other snakes, once you've tended to your wounds."
Harry was just about to respond, when he remembered the hundreds of scars he bore from his time in captivity. Suddenly, it all came crashing down on him; he was marked, permanently, by Voldemort. He would be reminded daily of the torture he'd gone through by his scars. He had disappeared from an entire dimension and ended up in an alternate dimension. He didn't even know if he could make it back. He didn't know if there was a war here, if he had an alternate him running around.
He didn't know anything. Didn't know if anyone cared for him, because Voldemort destroyed that. Didn't know if he would survive here, let alone make it back to his own dimension. And there was no one here to help, aside from Aetas.
He was vaguely aware of Aetas calling to him, and he clutched onto that hissing voice to drag him out of his spiral down to darkness. "Harry. Harry!"
Finally pulled out of his thoughts, he weakly smiled at his familiar. "Sorry, Aetas. I sort of drifted off."
"Don't lie to me, Harry. Our familiar bond allows us to send fragments of pictures through it, letting both of us see what the other sees. When you felt that turmoil, I know what happened, what you were thinking of." Aetas' voice softened. "You'll get through it. Torture is not to be taken lightly, and Voldemort never had the right to mark you with scars. No one does. Regardless of my being your familiar, I can't force you to look at those markings with something other than disgust. But just remember that you managed to get through the ordeal because you didn't break."
Harry nodded his head, whispers of pain shooting through him as if to remind him of how he had been tricked. It had been his fault, really, that he had been tortured. There was no one else to blame it on.
"You're doing it again, Harry. It wasn't your fault."
"Then whose was it? I was the one who took the Portkey." Harry realized, as he was speaking, that something was wrong with his story. The epiphany hit him so hard it left him gasping, praying that he wasn't right. "You think it's Dumbledore's fault."
"Why do you think that?" Aetas gently asked.
"Because...because he put up wards, and they didn't - didn't protect me like he said it would." The world seemed to have been pulled out from under his feet. Dumbledore couldn't have failed. He couldn't have. The grandfatherly figure simply couldn't have failed in protecting the boy he had taken under his wing. Ah, but he didn't seem to want to have anything to do with you last year, did he? A voice nastily asked.
"He said I would be safe. That I would be okay. But...he broke his promise. He failed me." Harry's voice shook as a lone tear slowly slid down his face.
"You have to remember, Harry, that he's only human, even though he seems superhuman and infallible. He has flaws, like everyone else does. You cannot solely depend on one person to keep yourself safe."
"I know. That doesn't mean...Did he even try?" The words began spilling out of him like a crashing waterfall. The doubt, the insecurities that he had hidden during his captivity overwhelmed him. "I was there for days, weeks, months, maybe years - long enough that I couldn't keep track of time. Did he even know?" Then, quietly, he asked with a childlike innocence, "Does he even care?"
The Quetzalcoatl replied, equally quietly, "That's up to you to determine."
"I just - I can't - I don't know. Someone caring for me is so foreign. And I - I don't think I can trust him, Aetas. Not anymore. Even though it was me who took the Portkey."
"These wards he speaks of, they should not allow a Death Eater onto the property. It was your safety in his hands, and he didn't ensure it."
"I know, but - I should have known better." He was wavering between blaming himself or Dumbledore. He knew, as Aetas was an impartial viewer of his memories, that the winged snake was probably right. "Even though he held my porcelain trust and broke it, I was the one that wasn't cautious enough."
"Dumbledore wronged you, Harry, whether he knows it or not. That's not your fault."
"Indeed, it's his failing, Mr Potter, not yours," a smooth, charismatic voice interjected.
Harry whipped around, ignoring the sudden flares of pain, his body instinctively covering the Quetzalcoatl.
And met the eyes of an adult Tom Riddle Jr.
Aetas - Latin for age, time.
A/N: So there it is, the first chapter. Hope you enjoyed it! Review if you like, they'll certainly help me out.
~Wolf and Phoenix